


Rapunzel [Pennywise (It)/ Young!Reader/ Losers Club]

by Dream_Faerie



Series: Blinded By Deadlights [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: And it's not really mentioned in this section, Author Commentary, Bad Jokes, Bill Denbrough is a Good Friend, But Rapunzel Seems Fitting, But it's okay bc he doesn't act on it yet, Dark Comedy, Even though he ends up hating the reader, Eventual Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, F/M, Gen, Henry is a Little Shit, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Justice will prevail, Kinda, Other, Pennywise (IT) Being an Asshole, Protective Henry, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, Warnings May Change, eddie kaspbrak has a crush on the readers, pennywise gets a crush on a young girl, reader faces slight abuse, the losers club become friends, the reader is henry bowers girl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Faerie/pseuds/Dream_Faerie
Summary: The clown at the end of your driveway asking you to let down your hair would be a little less freakier if there wasn't blood and drool dripping from his mouth...You wish you never moved from Coney Island because now you were in this mess with a ragtag bunch of losers against a clown that seems to prefer torturing you over the others.





	1. June 1988 - Promise To Be Strong

**Author's Note:**

> Slight hints of rape and abuse in this story, but I'll refrain from going into details. Also, this story is a bit of a slow build so pleeeeeaaaassse be patient. Action will happen soon 'nough.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'll always miss Coney Island.  
> .
> 
> .  
> A brief recollection.

A creeping sensation of minuscule nails poking and dragging their long needle-like legs across your skin was beginning to become more and more apparent. Your legs twitched causing the fabric of your denim skirt to slide down, revealing yellow, finger-shaped bruises scattered along your upper thighs. The bruises no longer hurt, your skin already trying to fade the memory away. Looking at the bruises you wished the memory was the hazy nightmare that your skin tried to convince you it was.You could almost believe that you had never gone to the house under the old, torn down Thunderbolt roller coaster. His lips never touched your own scowling petals, that his teeth ingrained their own jagged scars into the tender crook of your neck, that his hands had never pried your thighs apart like one would to open a mollusk to reveal the beautiful pearl hidden inside.

‘ _Pearl. Heh,_ ’ your mind chuckled cruelly to itself at its own dark sense of humor, you, on the other hand, was thoroughly disgusted.

You tore your eyes from your legs, the bile rising in your throat was good motivation, favoring the sight of the Aquarium that sat a few yards from your apartment building. A child - _do you have the right to call the boy a child when you yourself are a child?_ \- was crying - _no, no, no, wailing_ \- to his mother who was trying to drag him into the exhibit. You couldn’t see it quite well for yourself, but you could imagine it. The little boy crying with fat sloppy tears rolling down his cheeks as his mother, exasperated and already tired, assuring him that the big fishies weren’t scary. She’d bargain with her son, occasionally pulling out little tissue papers to catch the snot that was starting to get into his mouth, trying to convince him that the sharks was going to be like his dinosaur toys. He, obviously, wasn’t having any of that, crying even louder at the idea of going to the Aquarium. 

Of course it was only a fantasy you had dreamt of in your head. You couldn’t tell what the boy was crying about, but that didn’t stop you from fantasizing. A normal mom who wanted to do something fun with her kid, like go to an Aquarium. What you imagined a dad, who was strict but not overbearingly so, waiting awkwardly inside wondering why his wife and kid inside yet. Maybe an older sibling who had already bought everyone cotton candy already.

An unrealistic, over-glorified fantasy, but still you envied the young boy, your mind quietly scoffing at your pathetic desire. 

Pulling your legs tighter to your chest, you ignored the slight jab of pain that comes with moving when your limbs had fallen asleep. You took slight comfort in that stabbing needle pain that crawled up from your ankles. It was the first time in a month since the incident that you actually took noticed to how your body was feeling. A feeling other than the fleeting brushes of pain that came when your bruises was even looked at, and different from the throbbing ache that came inside of you, reminding you of the precious thing stolen from you. Gulping down the new wave of bile, you wondered if this was a sign; that maybe you were getting better and that you could move on from what he did to you. 

Your mind scoffed at that as well, ‘ _Don’t be stupid._ ’

A beaten-up, tightly sealed, brown box was dropped in your sight, your shoulders jumping in surprise. Dragging your eyes up, you see Christopher looking down at you with concern, “C'mon, we gotta go.”

You blinked a couple times then returned your attention to the brown box blocking your view of the window. Maybe, if you were lucky - _your mind scoffed again, and you idly wondered where all this sass came from_ -, your brother would leave you alone and your father would allow you to stay in Coney Island. Despite the pain this city has cause you, you couldn’t stop yourself from being sentimental. You knew the ins and outs of this island, knew how to start the old broken down rides from the sixties and get them to work for an hour, knew how to sneak onto the still operating rides -the Ferris Wheel was your favorite-, knew how to steal a week’s worth of cotton candy from the stand outside your apartment building. Coney Island was your home -no matter how unsafe you felt there now- and you didn’t want to abandon your home.

Your eyes stared at the box vacant of emotion, ignoring your brother’s gentle yet persistent nudging foot in your side and his quiet murmurs of your name. You hoped that he would get the hint and leave you alone to rot in peace.

Finally, your brother kneeled, still taller than you but closer to eye height, and placed a hand on your shoulder, “ Y/N take one box. Dad has been patient with you, but he’s about to lose it if he thinks you haven’t helped at all today.”

His hand was almost comforting, but not enough so to make you meet his blue eyes or even acknowledge his request. You wondered why your brother was so patient with you when your father expected you to move on and your mother wanted to treat it like it never happened. Christopher was always indirect with his actual opinions, and you couldn’t tell if you found it comforting. Always opting for the middle option, instead of stating his direct opinion, leaving you to interpret his meaning. Maybe that was his survival mechanism, you didn’t really know, but you found it frustrating. Christopher kneeled patiently beside you, waiting for any indication of movement. You marveled at your brother’s never-ending patience with you, curious as to how he was willing to wait while your father was anxious for you to move on. 

“I…” You opened and closed your mouth repeatedly, words struggling to pull themselves together in your mouth. Did you really want to talk about this with him? He was the one person in this family who you felt could understand you. He had been under father’s strict guidelines for much longer than you and had somehow gained mother’s hard-to-earn affections. For him praises come regularly from both your parents, and for you, well, you were a different case. Although Christopher has always reminded you that your parent’s compliments was something he had to earn as well, you couldn’t stop the little pang of jealousy in your heart.

“D-Do you think it’s my fault? Is it…?” Against your better judgement, you ask what had been on your mind for awhile. 

You didn’t dare to meet eyes with him, afraid of what you would see. Maybe you’d recognize the same hardening glare that your mother’s chestnut hues adopted when she looked at you, or, maybe, you’d see the familiar look of disgust that your father’s charcoal eyes still looked at you with. Christopher’s hand tightened on your shoulder and his voice became firm, as if to emphasize what he was saying, “It’s best not to dwell, Y/N. You’ll always end up thinking about what you wish you could change.”

Are those the words you were hoping for? Or for some sort of affirmation that you were the victim in this circumstance? You didn’t know, you don’t think you would ever be able to tell. Your brother stood up, his hand slipping from your shoulder, and walked from your room. He didn’t close the door, most likely leaving it open to remind you that you have to get up and willingly walk out yourself soon. All that’s left in the shell of your room was you and a brown cardboard box, and all you could do was peer at it with blank, disinterested eyes. 

Christopher, as usual, hadn’t given you anything. It hadn’t shocked you - _’Liar,’ your mind asserted, but you ignored it_ -, but you wished that for once that he hadn’t answered cryptically and actually made an attempt to support or oppose what your parents had taken to saying. You wouldn’t care, just something from him to make the situation more clear to you.

After a few minutes, you stood up, ignoring the protesting of your limbs and the needles that stabbed into your legs and arms. Leaning down - _’Lift from the legs, not from the back,’ you chided yourself_ -, you pick up the box. It wasn’t heavy, the contents labelled as ‘Bedding’ in your mother’s cursive script, and you were able to carry it down three flights of stairs to your father’s station wagon with ease. You dropped the box unceremoniously into your dad’s car, ignoring the disapproving grunt that came from the front seat.

“You got everything?” Your father asked, his eyes, still glaring at you with disgust, meeting yours from the rearview mirror, “We are not ever coming back, you understand?”

Your father, still extremely angry at you, stared at you while taking a long drag of his cigarette. His black eyes narrowed at you with a glare equivalent to what you’ve seen other parents give to their problem children. Were you a problem child? You knew you didn’t get outstanding grades like your brother - _hence the reason that man was in your life in the first place_ -, and you loved to participate in activities improper for young ladies. He detested the fact that you went exploring, it wasn’t abnormal for you to come home, past curfew, with dirt and small scrapes littering your body. You remember when you traded your mother’s knitting needles for a small habitat to keep a spider that you wanted as a pet. A small, ghost of a smiled slid onto your face at the memory of convincing a young boy that your mother’s needles were magic wands and that he was getting a good deal. The smile quickly disappeared at the memory of your father throwing the glass cage above your head when he found out. You were lucky that the glass didn’t cut you.

Tearing your eyes away from him you nodded, acknowledging what he was saying. Coney Island was your forbidden city, much like the ordinary people of the Qing dynasty, you wouldn’t be allowed to step foot here again. You don’t think you would want to either, despite your reluctance to leave. You think that every spot that he walked on would be too painful to revisit, and you weren’t interested in reliving those moments. Your eyes looking around at the place you once called home, one last time, ignoring the painful throb of your heart. You wondered if the shadows was always this dark and encompassing, and you wondered if it was always this dirty and run-down. You hadn’t had a good look at the streets since the incident and everything seemed far more unwelcoming. The bright colors of your memory seemed to dull in comparison to your bleak reality. 

The slam of the car door startled you from your thoughts. Christopher glanced behind towards you and gave a tight-lipped smile. He began to buckle himself up, then proceeded to pull his walkman headphones over his ears. Your mother peeked at you from the front seat, hard brown eyes looking at you disapprovingly.

“Y/N Y/M/N Ellis. Quit wasting our time and get into the car, we don’t have all day,” she snapped impatiently, clicking her tongue in frustration and returning to her knitting. 

Your frown deepened, lips quivering slightly as you held back your tears. You knew the only reason you were moving from your longtime home was because of you, but you didn’t understand their contempt for you. Were you bad daughter? Maybe this move would be good for you. A chance to redeem yourself in their eyes and reinvent yourself into the proper daughter they always wanted. You nodded to yourself, confirming that this is what you needed to do, and gripped the top of the trunk, slamming it to a shut.

One last glance at your old apartment building, mentally ridding the burden of memories of this place, you turned away. You slid into the seat next to your brother, forcing yourself not to look back, your jaw tightened. An unspoken promise slipped into your mind to yourself that you will never be the victim of any circumstance ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Prologue! I already got a few chapters typed out, but I'll post them later. I want to reread them for any errors or mistakes. I'm kinda trying to paint a picture of reader's home life and personality. I want her to be the most normal one out of all of them -sort of-, but y'know everyone in the Loser's club has a back story. Something that makes them easy to take advantage of and prey on by adults and monsters from the Macroverse. I was debating whether I really wanted to go down this route for reader, because Beverly has kind of the same situation, but I decided to go for it. Reader won't touch on the situation as much as Beverly, but it might come up. I dunno, we'll see.


	2. October 1988- Very Wise, Kiddo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You see something very peculiar on your walk to the library.  
> .
> 
> .  
> You meet the other quiet new kid. Or more like you tried to meet him.

You shrugged your brand new, baby blue backpack onto your shoulders, feeling the weight of the bag to cause your shoulders to sag. The weight of the bag rested uncomfortably on the small of your back, the pressure causing quiet cracking sounds to emit from your back. You tried adjusting the bag by hiking it up yo your shoulders, but instead your backpack skidded back down to the small of your back, causing your shoulders to crackle and droop uncomfortably back. Your face twisted in displeasure and you heaved the bag off your shoulders and onto your dining room table, wincing slightly when the loud bang of your bag’s content hit the hardwood of the table. You lifted the bag slightly to make sure you didn’t scratch the hardwood table, your mother would have your head if you did.

“Y/M/N,” your mother’s voice sounded from the living room, her tone issuing a warning, “Watch the noise pollution.”

You made a face in her general direction, mouthing her words mockingly. You then put your thumbs to your ears and waggled your fingers in a taunting manner. You wouldn’t dare ever do this if your mother - _or, even worse, your father_ \- was here, but, by yourself, you felt bold enough to backtalk. A large hand rested on your shoulders, causing you to jump three feet in the air with a screech. Your brother - _it wasn’t rocket science to figure out it was him_ \- howled in laughter, doubling over as he laughed at how easily frightened you were. A growl rumbled in your throat and you were about to tell him off, but your mother was far quicker than you:

“Y/N! Christopher!” she snapped, the small creaks of her recliner sounded and indicated that she was getting up.

You quickly straightened up, hyper aware of your position with her, whipping around back to your backpack. You wanted to look like an innocent bystander in this situation, even though you already knew what was going to happen. Your mother was going to place all the blame on you, and Christopher was going to remain in his role as innocent angel. Hands making fast work, you tightened the straps of her bag, ignoring the two glare holes that your mother was undoubtedly burning into your back. Christopher, who was still laughing, was ignored by her - _’he always gets special treatment’ your jealous mind mumbled_ -. Tugging harshly at the leftover fabric, you attempted to tighten the straps but struggled visible with it. The strap folded within the clip, getting caught and stopping the adjustment immediately. You huffed in frustration and dug your fingers into the clip for your straps trying to fix it. Clumsy hands panicked trying to look busy, your brother’s larger ones pushed yours away to fix tighten the straps for you.

Glancing back, you meet with eyes with your mother. She was annoyed at you, you could see it clear as day. She hated noise, preferring to do her needlework in complete silence or to the music of the classical music channel. Your mother was always quick to remind you that you were a colicky baby and a crybaby growing up, meaning that you were loud. She thought of you as a noisy hassle. Quickly turning around and allowing Christopher to help you, you cast your eyes downward in, what you hoped look like, shame, “Sorry, mom. I didn’t mean to.”

“Sorry, mom.” she hissed mockingly, her brown eyes narrowing at you, “What did I ask of you Y/N Y/M/N?”

“To keep down the noise pollution.”

“And what did you do?”

“It’s my fault, m’am,” Christopher interrupted, flashing your mother and award-winning poster-child smile, “I scared poor little Y/N here. Don’t scold her too much.”

Your mother’s eyes visibly softened - _you reminded yourself that jealousy was an ugly green eyed monster_ \- before turning back to you, “That doesn’t explain why she feels the need to slam everything: doors, tables, backpacks. I will not repair another scratch in that table.”

“Well, it’s not entirely her fault,” Christopher held up your backpack, his biceps curling the bag like a dumbbell, “She has the whole library in her hands, which, speaking of, what’s in here?”

You shrugged, sliding one of the straps he wasn’t grasping onto your shoulders, “Uhh, dunno. Your old Biology and Algebra textbooks… A copy of _Jane Eyre, Crime and Punishment, and Huckleberry Finn_ , and some coursework that the teachers gave me to finish early.”

 

Christopher gave a low whistle, helping the other strap onto your shoulder. He patted your backpack once it was secured to your back, “You headin’ to the library? It’s raining pretty heavily out there, let me drive you.”

 

“No thanks, I wanna break in these new boots,” You lifted your feet, showing off your pretty, new, light blue rain boots.

 

“In that outfit, is that really lady-like?” Your mother questioned, eying your bootcut jeans and long sleeve blue and green striped shirt. You loved this outfit, the jeans allowed you to move freely and the shirt had two of your most favorite colors. The added bonus was that the shirt was a hand-me-down from Christopher, and, although you’ve grown distant from each other these past few month, you still loved this shirt.

 

You held back a whine that threatened to sound from the back of your throat, you knew you would be forced to change into a skirt if you griped aloud to your mother. Instead you simply stated, “It’s starting to get cold out, I don’t want to catch a cold since this break period is almost over, momma.”

 

She hummed, her lip pulling up in obvious distaste. She hated when you called her ‘momma,’ but she never complained preferring that over the other option: ‘ _mommy_.’ Rolling her eyes most likely because she didn’t have a counterpoint to you fashion decision, she huffed in exasperation, “Fine, make sure to wear a rain jacket and bring an umbrella.”

 

You grinned giddily, feeling as smooth as a criminal, and ran past your mom to the front door that had hooks full of rain coats and small, cylindrical bin. You quickly grabbed the raincoat that matched your rain boots, tossing it on over you and your backpack, and a white umbrella. Throwing open the door, you began to open the umbrella right outside the door until your mother distracted you.

 

“Make sure to be home before curfew,” she reminded you, already easing back into her reclining chair and to her patchwork that she was working on, “Your father will snap - _your umbrella opened, blocking your view of her and causing you to frown_ \- if you’re out past curfew.”

 

You twisted, holding the now opened umbrella outside, and nodded. Your father had been wound up since the disappearance of a young girl that was only four years younger than you and the teenage boy who was in the same class as Christopher. He had been strict about you not leaving the house without a chaperone or anyone in the family being out past curfew, and you were not about to test his patience. You shot a smile towards her and Christopher, who was waving at you with his keys in his hands. He was probably going to go tutor Henry and his friends, and you had no interest running into the troublemaker who had gained recent interest in your family - _’more like you,’ your mind scoffed_ -.

 

Closing the door, to your house you pulled the umbrella over your head. Your smile morphed into a frown at the realization that you opened it inside the house. You were superstitious and you knew that bad luck would ‘rain’ on you for many days to come because of that mistake. Sighing, you stepped off your porch and into the rain, beginning your walk to the library that was in the center of Derry. The path was familiar to you since you spent most days there after school and on any break you had. Your parents were always gungho on you following your brother’s footsteps and be successful in school. They hoped you would graduate at the top of your class and get int a well-known school. You always wished you could tell them that you weren’t your brother, but you knew they were painfully aware of that and that they expected more from you. A classy, young lady with intelligence to compete with any man and be more productive in the workplace.

 

You let out a big sigh, shivering as a large gust of wind flung your hair back. Nose and eyes scrunching when h/c strands slapped your face. Your eyes trailed to the houses of your neighborhood. You still weren’t used to the suburban, small town life that was Derry. Everyone knew each other, from their personal life to their work performance. It was still a shock for you when someone congratulates you on your dad’s promotion to Sheriff Deputy, one he didn’t even tell the family about. Another gust of wind sent cold chills running down your spine, slithering like a grass snake across the yard.

 

Despite missing Coney Island a little bit, you still missed the smell of cotton candy everyday and the thrill of sneaking onto the Ferris wheel, you didn’t mind it much here. The kids were friendly enough, never saying anything mean to you, although you hadn’t made any friends yet. You suspected it was because of Henry and his friends - _you knew for a fact it was because of them_ -, they were bullies to every kid that was in middle school except you. Henry had taken an immediate liking towards you and used your father’s newfound friendship with his dad to get tutoring from Christopher, using that interaction to try and corner you at home. The high school and middle school in Derry was connected from seventh to twelfth grades, so whenever Henry saw you in the hallway, before, or after school he would hang off your shoulders, warding off any kid in your grade and making you essentially an outcast. Frequently, you wondered if your brother knew what was happening and decided not to do anything.

 

You snapped out of your thoughts as you spotted a kid in a yellow rain outfit staring down into one of the sewer drains. You wouldn’t of thought much of it, admittedly you yourself would be entranced by the heavy rain water flowing down the drain, but you saw his lips moving as if he was speaking? You kept walking towards him, what were you supposed to do the library was in that direction, keeping your eyes trained on him. Your mind logically explained away what was happening, an overactive imagination, he’s singing ‘row, row, row your boat,’ something normal that can be explained.

 

As you neared him, you saw bright ginger red tufts of perfectly groomed hair, then you saw the white where the ginger hair rested. Curiously, you stood behind the boy, who you recognized was Gregory - _no, no, no Giorgione, Gavin, something with a G_ -, and peered into the sewer, shocked by what you saw. There was a freakin’ clown in the sewer! Red nose, white and red face paint, and everything! Shocked, you watched as the clown and Griffin - _not his name, fuck_ \- talked amongst each other. The boy seemed uncertain, nervous actually, while the clown was all smiles. The two red lines that dragged from his mouth and up past his eyes making the clown’s smile seem far more eerie than what it should’ve been - _’cause a clown in the sewer isn’t creepy at all’ your mind snorted derisively_ -. The clown’s eyes trailed to you - _or one of his eyes, they seemed to be lazy_ -, still directly across the street from the younger boy, and his smile widened. He reminded you of those sharks in the Environmental textbooks your brother lends you from time to time, his teeth looked predatory and nothing you would want to be near.

 

The young boy, Geo-something, must have noticed the same thing as you heard him over the thunderous sounds of rain hitting the pavement, “My parents say I shouldn’t talk to strangers…”

 

You stepped closer to the young boy - _no, not the boy, you stepped closer to the clown_ -, your eyes not leaving the clown’s. You couldn’t tell whether he was looking at you or the boy in the yellow rain gear, but the smile on the clown’s face grew wider. His smile reminded you of the man who had won the lottery in your old apartment building, he looked as if he was getting a huge treat or if Christmas had come early.

 

“Veh- eh- eeeery wise, kiddo! Very wise, indeed,” the clown smiled, shaking happily in his spot, “Well, I’m Pennywise, the Dancing Clown.”

 

You began to slowly walk across the street, trying to see the strange interaction between the two. A blanket of fuzz wrapped itself around your mind and you couldn’t think clearly, rationally, not that you noticed. Your mind instead became overcome with a childlike sense of curiosity and wonder, you wanted to get closer to the clown. You hadn’t seen a clown since the Cirque Du Soleil came to visit Coney Island for a few days, and you sure hadn’t heard of clowns living in sewers. Clowns were always fun! Especially when they handed out balloon animals and cotton candy. In your curiosity, the wind pulled at your umbrella, your hands letting it slip down for a second, causing you to get hit by a few stray raindrops, but you didn’t mind. You were entranced by the clown’s baby blue eyes.

 

‘ _My favorite color,_ ’ Your mind thought with childlike glee, all the while ignoring the dangerous sense of foreboding. You were halfway across the street when you heard a loud honking noise right to your left. Jumping three feet in the air, you notice the young boy does as well, you run back across the street safely before looking for the source of the noise. There, driving your brother’s new car, was Henry with Christopher smoking a cigarette in the passenger seat. Henry waved at you and sent you a wink, the gesture leaving a bad taste in your mouth, while your brother opened the car window. You frowned as smoke wafted from out of the window, knowing that Christopher will probably ask for your help to get rid of scent of cigarettes from his car.

 

Puffing out a drag of smoke he yelled over the rain, “Get to library, _wild child_!”

 

Flicking the cigarette in his hand out at you, you stuck your tongue out at your brother. He often teased you for your favorite song being Wild Child from W.A.S.P, but you knew he would sing it himself whenever his old mixtape cassette played the song. Glancing back at the young boy, you noticed he went back to talking down to the sewer, but, to your surprise, nothing was there. The boy was just talking to himself and the darkness of the sewers. You blinked a few times confused. Did you actually just see a clown? Maybe your imagination was running wild.

 

Yeah, that's probably it.

 

You heard your father’s voice scolding you, saying, ‘ _if you have time to meander then you have time to study._ ’ Your father hated it when you got distracted. Turning your eyes from the odd situation, you focused back on your destination, shuffling away quickly as the imagined clown had set your nerves on edge.

 

… … …

 

The day at the library had been relatively quiet. You noticed that the only person other than you was some teenagers who were making out in the back and the new kid in your class. You eyed him from behind your Crime and Punishment book, never having had got the chance to look at him up close you took this rare opportunity. He was obviously obese, that much was obvious, but, other than that, you could tell that he could be cute, if he lost all that weight. His eyes were hooded, shading what looked like green color eyes, his nose wide and flaring, and his lips forming a shapely heart. Not completely unattractive, despite what Henry says, but Henry _is_ an asshole so you don't know why you would believe him. You kinda felt bad for him, he didn’t have any friends like you. Maybe you could stand up, walk over, introduce yourself, and become friends with him, his first friend in Derry. That would get Henry to stop calling him ‘Fatfuck’ or ‘Fat pig,’ and maybe you could start hanging out with kids in your-

 

Your ears flare up and a blush immediately settles on your cheeks, he was watching you stare at him. There is no chance you could be friends now. Your heart leapt in out of your throat as you gulped down your embarrassment and he stood up, picking up his books that he laid out on the table.

 

Your mind went into a frenzy, ‘ _OHmygosh. What do I do if he comes over here? Do I smile and wave? No, no! Act friggin’ cool. Get your act together Y/N we are as suave as a mofafucka._ ’

 

He stepped closer, quite literally two steps in front of your table, ‘ _Red alert! Red alert! I am not suave! I only recently stopped peeing my bed and I am not ready for this! Quick play dead!_ ’

 

You slammed your head onto the table, lolling your tongue dramatically out of your mouth, and played dead. It obviously worked, as he just walked right past you and out the doors that led to the library’s exit. You waited a few minutes and gave a triumphant smile, thrusting your arm up and down in victory. You were the best god dang dead person this town of Derry had ever seen. You glanced around, checking to make sure no one had seen that, only to find the couple that was making out three tables behind you had their eyes trained on you and was snickering. Another rush of blood presented itself to your cheeks, you being the best dead person Derry had ever seen just for the small price of what little pride you had left.

 

Your mind sneered, ‘ _Don’t you wish you died for real?_ ’

 

Huffing exasperatedly, you stuffed your nose back into your copy of _Crime and Punishment_ and getting lost between the pages, ignoring the snickering of the teenagers and the slight throb of your head from where you slammed it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just in case anyone is wondering: yes, I know Ben isn't supposed to live in Derry, yet.
> 
> I know Ben was supposed to move to Derry shortly after the end of the semester, but I decided to make him move to Derry earlier. Having Ben move earlier in the year builds on the idea that Henry is more preoccupied with the reader than other seventh grade students. The timeline of events kinda changes because we have an extra person who causes things to move more quickly or more slowly depending on their actions.
> 
> Also, we'll be seeing Henry a lot more in these coming chapters.


	3. February, 1989- Roses Are Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get a sweetly stupid Valentine's Day card.  
> .
> 
> .  
> Why didn't you save Georgie Denbrough back in October?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger: Mentions of Abuse

School, for you, was a different kind of hell than your home life.

 

At home, you had some reprieve. Your parents would ignore you for the most part if you were as quiet as a dormouse. You generally lived by the policy ‘don’t make any trouble and you won’t get any trouble.’ Your dad was always busy with his work at the police precinct, and your mother was always focused on Christopher, especially now that he’s getting ready to leave for college. Although you wished for attention, some sort of positive reinforcement, you would take them ignoring you over your father’s switches and your mother’s punishments.

 

School was different. You always had unwanted attention. Teachers treated you with an odd mix of fear and respect, because you were the Deputy Sheriff’s daughter and because you skipped a grade. Every chance they got, they would use you as an example for the class. You were the unreachable goal for other students, and that view caused you to be put on a pedestal among your peers. They no longer viewed you as someone their age, but as someone who was untouchable. Whispers from your classmates could always be heard, they thought you were uppity, a teacher’s pet, too good for everyone. You wished you could tell them that you were just shy, that you weren’t uppity.  

 

It didn’t help either that Henry Bowers was infatuated with you. He quickly took up your brother’s advertisement for tutoring, once he realized that Christopher was your older brother, and used that as an excuse to hang on your shoulders. You once asked him to leave you alone, and he just laughed in your face.

 

“ _Why would I leave my favorite girl alone?_ ” he had snorted, “ _Shut the fuck up and know your place._ ”

 

You didn’t ask him again, but silently mourned over the fact that you won’t make any friends. Henry was a well known bully to the seventh grade class, and kids in your grade purposefully avoided you in the halls, obviously swerving to the opposite side to avoid you. Henry would meet you before and after each class and loop his arm around your shoulder, snapping and threatening to fuck up anyone who dared look in your direction. After a month of these threats, no one would meet your eyes.

 

In general, you were a pariah.

 

Today was no different. People refused to meet eyes with you, the teacher’s regarded you with way too much respect, and Henry was clingy, clingier than usual. This was mostly due to the fact that today was Valentine's day. The school had little paper hearts posted everywhere and pink, red, and white balloons were floating in various rooms, held down by brightly foiled sand bags. Girls dressed in cuter outfits than usual skipped through the hallways and many boys held various amounts of gifts in their hands. Some people were stuffing notes into locker, quickly, as to not be caught by their crush, and others were pulling their crush aside to confess their feelings to them.

 

Henry had his arm wrapped around you as you were peering through books in the school library. He had pulled out his chew and tossed some into his mouth, grunting in annoyance.

 

“Now, what I don’ get,” he drawled out between small smacks of his lips, “Is why you can’t do your studyin’ n’ shit with me and the guys in the lunchroom.”

 

“Lunchroom is too loud,” you responded quietly, picking up a book about American farming methods, “Library has all the supplies that I need.”

 

“Sounds like a bunch of excuses,” another disgusting smack of his lips, as he snatched the book in your hands, “Who reads this shit for fun, Y/N?”

 

‘ _Excuses keep me from wasting my time with you and your friends_ ,’ you thought before sighing and grabbing the book back from his prying hands, “I already told you, Henry, I have to write an essay for my Environmental Biology course.”

 

You turned from the bookshelf and slid from the boy’s grasp, going back to the library table that held your stuff. You blinked in confusion for a second, your bag had been opened slightly and your red Mathematics book was sitting out in the open. It was odd, but not strange enough for you to make a big deal out of it. On top of your textbook was a small white envelope with a heart sticker there to keep the envelope closed. You jumped over to your stuff and quickly hid the letter into your backpack before Henry could see it.

 

“Well, I ain’t sittin’ in here with you,” Henry said, dropping another book on your table. ‘ _Web of Spider-Man_ ’ issue number 32 was what he dropped, but the copy was worn down. The title was mostly scratched off with only the words ‘web of man’ left to be seen with a small dick drawn next to it. You picked it up, and looked at it with a disgusted look before handing it back to him.

 

“S’okay,” you mumbled, sliding into your seat. Silently you begged for Henry to leave you in peace, you wanted to read the letter.

 

He eyed you for a moment, before shrugging and stuffing the comic into his pocket. It wasn’t odd for him to steal from the library and you didn’t care enough to scold him for it. He waved and began to walk away, “I’ll pick you up after seventh, Ellis.”

 

Once the coast was cleared, you pulled out the perfectly clean, white letter. You admired it for a second, it was your first Valentine’s Day card since grade school when kids were forced to bring those sappy love notes and distribute them to each other. With a delicate finger, you pulled the sticker off so you can open the envelope, careful not to break the cute seal. The letter itself was a blue parchment paper and in a clumsily written scrawl - _did this person learn to write cursive for this letter_ \- was your name.

 

‘ _Y/N Ellis_.’ Your name had never looked prettier to you, and you were glad that you were you. Maybe your classmates were just as shy as you were.

 

Opening the letter, you couldn’t help but smile at the sweet content. It started with cursive then after a series of scribbles switched to regular penmanship.

 

‘ _Dearest Y/N,_

 

 _Your h/c glistens with a healthy shine and your e/c eyes are ent_ (a few scribbles here was your indication that the person struggled with this word) _entrancing. Your smile is brighter than the sun and (another set of scribbles) your quiet laughter is contagious. In the good way I mean!_ (you chuckled at this, it looked like the person panicked a bit at the sentence) _You were blessed wit_ (scribbles filled the entirety of the line and the writer switched to what you assume is his normal writing style, you could sense he was essentially saying ‘fuck it’) _._

 

 _Hey, Y/N I’m not any good with this lovey dovey bullshit. I like you, I guess. You don’t give me odd looks in gym_ (he’s in your gym class, huh) _when I have to use my inhaler, and that time you helped me find my medicine at the nurse’s office when she was out was nice. R-_ (scribbles were especially hard here, you think he was trying to hide his name or a friend’s maybe) _Everybody thinks that you’re a raging bitch, but you can’t be. You smell like soap all the time and you never come to school looking dirty. You didn’t judge me, a person worse than a nobody, a loser, so how bad can you be?_

 

_Sincerely,_

_Why the fuck did I write this?’_

 

A smile slid onto your face and you felt a little bit of blood rush to your face. It wasn’t romantic like you had imagined it to be, but it was sweet. You could feel the nervous feelings put into the letter and you weren’t going to take them for granted. Although the writer gave you hints to his identity you still didn’t know who he was. Surprisingly, a lot of kids had health issues here, and, although it shocked you at first, you didn’t really mind it. You just counted your blessings that you were healthy and continued on your day. Then the thing about you helping him at the nurse’s office wasn’t that abnormal. You decided to job shadow the school nurse for a few weeks and took up the task of helping your peers when she left for one of her infamous hour long smoke breaks.

 

What the letter did do, other than bring a smile on your face, was confirm your suspicions. People in your class hated you. They thought you were a ‘raging bitch’ and you doubted you could change their minds. However, you didn’t let that thought drag you down too much. Focusing on the positive which was that there was one person who liked you.

 

Folding the letter back up, you placed it back into the envelope and into your backpack. You were planning to keep it as a keepsakes, this letter would become precious to you. With another content sigh, your mind chirped, ‘ _well, that made my day_.’

 

You reached over for your environmental book that your were going to write your essay on, bumping your arm on your mathematics textbook. Grunting in annoyance, you change your mind and segway into moving the textbook back into its proper place into your bag. You hold the textbook aside as you adjust your bag’s contents to make room for it, and as you move to put it in you notice something. A small gap in the pages, three quarters of the book in, and it wasn’t supposed to be like that. You made it a point not to leave papers in your textbook as that was messy and disorganized, a distraction from school that you didn’t need.

 

Putting the book down, you pulled open the textbook to the page with the gap. You struggled for a second, the two pages sticking stubbornly to each other. Huffing in frustration, you finally got the pages to come apart. Disgust filled you as several thin, pinky colored strands connected the two papers together, and on one of the pages was a small message written in a bright red liquid.

 

‘ _Roses are red, violets are blue. I’ve never met anyone as mouth-watering as you!_ ’ Underneath the little poem was a crudely drawn… clown? It was hard to tell because the ink was running, but the circular, filled-in red nose was the best hint you could go off of. The clown had it’s clumsily drawn lips pulled together in a pucker, but the eyes are what freaked you out. They were hyper realistic, as if two glaring red, bloodshot eyes was intently watching you. The poem and the drawing by themselves isn’t what caused the shivers to run up and down your spine, but what was on the opposite, stained by the message. A small, laminated sailboat with ‘ _S. S. Georgie_ ’ written in black, permanent marker, the name of the boy who had gone missing back in October.

 

You slammed the book shut, stuffed it into your backpack. This was a horribly cruel prank.

 

… … …

 

You gnawed on the end of your pencil while reading about livestock farming, pulling the pencil from your mouth as you scribbled a few notes from the book you were reading. Every once in awhile, you could feel Christopher’s eyes on you as he sighs in annoyance. It was one of his pet peeves that you did, and you knew it. Originally, when you first developed the habit, it was absent mindedly biting into the wood. As you got older though, you took happiness in breaking down his golden boy facade around mom and dad. You wouldn’t be so obvious as to try to snitch on him to your parents, he was far more clever than you and would often turn the situation back on you to bite you in the ass. So, you figured out a different method. You chipped away at his nerves until he lost it.

 

Of course, you never wanted your brother to be in serious trouble, but you always appreciated it when he was in a bit of trouble. When he was being scolded, you were allowed a small treat, and right now you were craving an ice cream sandwich. Christopher was no idiot, and he knew exactly what you were trying to do. Slamming down his own pencil, you glanced up to meet his glaring eyes with a smirk.

 

“Y/N-” your mother’s warning voice could be heard, she was working on her new needlework for Easter this year.

 

“Wasn’t me,” you responded, your grin widening and Christopher’s glare narrowing.

 

“Christopher,” she corrected herself in the same tone, “If there is a scratch on that table you’re the one who will be buffing and repainting in this cold weather.”

 

He didn’t respond to your mother, there was no use in arguing with her as you both knew. Instead he slowly stood up and pushed out his chair, closing his eyes to calm himself down. With a huff, he walked into your house’s adjoining kitchen and closed the door behind him so he wouldn’t have to see you. Puffing your lips out, you pouted a bit at the lack of reaction on his part. You were hoping for at least an actual scratch in the table, not just this.

 

Sucking on your lips, you cast one more glance at the kitchen door before returning to your work. You were disappointed, but you knew there was always tomorrow and you could head to the corner store and use some of your allowance for an ice cream sandwich. As you were about to scribble another note down about livestock farming you heard the front door slam shut. You could hear the rattling of the doorframe and your mother’s needlework hitting the floor when she jumped in surprise.

 

“Walter!” your mother squawked, causing you to turn your head a bit. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Christopher peek his head from the kitchen. Both of you knew that your father was generally apathetic to most situations, so for him to come home angry meant that someone was in major trouble.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Irene,” he growled out. You flinched when you heard the sound of his shoes being kicked off and hitting the wall paired with the sound of his heavy coat dropping to the ground. Both of your parents were sticklers for cleanliness, so him kicking off his shoes and dropping his jacket haphazardly was not a good sign, “Where the fuck is _your_ daughter?”

 

You nearly gave yourself whiplash. What had you done recently? You were making sure to be on your best behavior because you knew this move was stressful for your dad as he had to give up a part of his live saving to leave Coney Island. You knew living in Derry wasn’t cheap and you tried to not stress him out anymore at home. Eat, study, and sleep was your schedule to stay on his good side. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Christopher slipping back into the kitchen. Both of you knew it was best to make yourselves scarce when the other was in trouble, as callous as it sounds, you both knew that it was better if only one of you were in trouble.

 

Standing up, you made sure to keep your eyes to the ground and in a shaky voice called out, “H-Here, Daddy.”

 

Your father already knew you were in here, but it was one of his quirks - _could you even call it a quirk?_ \- for you to present yourself to him. Christopher had explained it to you as an act of submission on your part, admitting that you’re the lesser one. You didn’t understand it, but you knew Christopher was right. His footsteps stomped across the living room, echoed by the slight slap of your mother’s slippers on the back of her heels, and he slammed the door to the dining room open. You visibly withered at the sight of your father, red-faced and already stripping off the belt from his khakis. The second of silence as he ripped off his belt had you shaking like a leaf, and the moment he folded the belt in half and snapped the leather together you were already crying. You were a coward, especially when it came to punishments.

 

“D-D-Da-Daddy, I’ve been good!” you wailed, desperation already making its way into your voice, “I pr-promise! You can ask Christopher and look -you held up your research paper, it slightly crumpling in your nervous grip- I’m hard at work!”

 

Your father cracked his jaw as he allowed his belt to dangle limply ing his hand, “You have thirty seconds to guess what you did. For every second it takes you, you get twice the amount of strikes and an hour in the attic. If you don’t… We’ll see, won’t we?”

 

Your dad began counting, slowly as if to give you a fair chance, but you had no idea. You looked towards your mother in a panic, but she stared at you blankly. Your fingers nervously twitched as you wracked your brain. What in the world could you have done to deserve his anger? Cutting in between his counting, he was on twelve you think, you do the one thing you could think of, “A-A hint, daddy? I can’t thi--nk of anything!”

 

You hated how your voice wavered, but your father does pause in his counting for a second, considering your plea. Of course, she shook his head, but the few seconds of reprieve that he gave you was something you were thankful for.

 

‘ _Always appreciate the small things,_ ’ your mind sarcastically quipped at you.

 

Seventeen seconds and still no clue. You forced your mind to focus but you had a sinking feeling - _no, you knew_ \- that you were screwed. Your dad set this up so that you had no chance, or maybe he did this so that you would confess to any other misdeeds that you’ve committed since you’ve moved to Derry. But you hadn’t done anything, you _know_ you hadn’t, and you were struggling not to just collapse into a puddle before his feet and beg him not to strike you. Instead, you steeled your jaw at twenty-five seconds and met his eyes with what you hoped was a look of resolution. Although your emotions were going haywire with fear, panic, anger, and degrees of desperation, you didn’t want to appear as weak and helpless as you felt.

 

That goal wilted away the moment he reached thirty and his hand snapped forward grabbed your chin with and iron grip. You felt your jaw pop slightly, causing you to flinch, but you forced yourself to meet your father’s eyes. He gave you his steely eye glare, and in a low voice growled out, “Imagine my surprise when Mrs. Maddock said that she saw you the day Georgie disappeared. How one moment you were looming behind him, the next he was missing and you were skipping off. She accused me of keeping you safe, Y/N Y/M/N, she accused me of allowing my own fucking daughter to commit murder!”

 

Your eyes furrowed. Georgie was the boy who was talking to the cl-? You stopped that thought, remembering how insane you thought it was that there was a _person_ in the sewers, _much less a fucking clown_ . No, the clown was never there, but he was talking to something that day. You never thought to bring it up because you didn’t recognize the boy or consider the moment that important. Some kid had an imagination, _so what_ , how was it your fault when you didn’t even know who the kid was.

 

“B-But, Daddy,” you struggled to get that at out, your jaw being squeezed tightly inhibited your speech, “I d--iidn’t realize-”

 

“But, Daddy,” he mocked, causing your cheeks to heat up even more. Your father threw your head from his grasp, effectively pushing you away from in disgust. You gripped your jaw, trying to massage the pain away, but was interrupted by the tight grip on your long hair. He had a grip on you hair, and he began to drag you past your mother who was staring blankly at you. You cried out quietly, moving to keep up with him while gripping your hair, spotting Christopher begin to peek his head out from the kitchen.

 

You whined in pain, causing your father to yank your h/c hair, snarling “Shut the fuck up. The louder you are, the longer your punishment will be.”

 

Tears began to stream down from your eyes, knowing that your punishment would last all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! I won't be posting the next chapter until January 2nd since I'll be visiting some family.


	4. June 1989- Who Framed Henry Bowers?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try to protect the Loser's Club.  
> .
> 
> .  
> You really wanted to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit.

Kids were already screaming before the final bell rang, to your displeasure. It was the last day of school and nearly everyone in your homeroom could keep themselves seated or their voices at a reasonable volume. You, on the other hand, was just now beginning to pack up your belonging with an inaudible sigh. You slid your different color folders that still looked as good as new -your dad would kill you if you wasted valuable supplies- into your backpack, behind a European History textbook and in front of the your copy of _Their Eyes Were Watching God_. Even though school had been hell for you, you knew you would still miss coming here. For you, even if school ended doesn’t mean that your education did. It meant long hours in the silence of the library and coming home to silence just to study. Christopher was going to be leaving for Harvard by mid-June and you’d become utterly alone in that silent house.

 

The bell rang, the loud dings causing your classmates to all simultaneously come to a stand and flood out of the classroom. Students pushed past the rows and rows of desks, shoving each other in a rush to get out of school. You could hear a few of them mutter in pain, and the scraping of desks when their hips bumped into the corners. Your teacher smiled and waved goodbye to everyone, “Goodbye, Eddie, Richie, Sophie! Goodbye Clarkson - _don’t push each other!_ -, Kelly! Goodbye everyone and have a wonderful summer break! See you next year!”

 

Another sigh slipped from your mouth as you stood up when the crowd around the desks and door dispersed. You weren’t one for large groups, getting anxiety whenever there was a crowd like that. That was one of the many reasons you hated sitting in the front, kids in a rush would crowd your desk to get out of the room. Shrugging on your bag - _the light blue one, obviously_ -, you slowly rose to a stand catching the attention of your teacher. She gave you a bigger smiled, tucking her hands beneath her chin, “But I won’t be seeing you next year, will I, Miss Y/N?”

 

You blinked in confusion for a moment, “Pardon? I don’t… I don’t think we’re moving from Derry…”

 

Your teacher laughed at your confusion, shaking her head slightly, “No, no, dear. I heard you were approved to skip eighth grade and go straight to ninth grade! That’s so exciting!”

 

‘ _Whoopee_ ,’ your mind sarcastically commented, but you gave your teacher a shy smile, “It’s not confirmed, yet, but, uh, yeah. I suppose I might end up another year ahead. I guess we’re going to be told in July or, uh, something.”

 

She chuckled, her lips pulling into a slight pouting frown, “Ah, what to do? I’m happy that you’ll be advancing, but I’m also sad. Who will be there to set an example for the other students and motivate them?”

 

‘ _I guess you’ll actually have to work with your students now instead of just saying I get it and asking why they don’t_ ,’ another quip from your mind. That annoyed you to no end, instead of giving their students actual goals to motivate them to do better, the teachers in some of your classes got lazy and just placed you on a pedestal. You were thought of as a teacher’s pet because of it and kids in the seventh grade went out of their way to avoid you. Your mind was right with what you were thinking, but you would never have the bravery to say it out loud to an adult. Instead, you gave a bashful shrug and began to play idly with your backpack’s hanging straps, muttering a noncommittal response to her rhetorical question.

 

“Well, I suppose your parents must be absolutely excited from your accomplishments! Especially your dad, I know he expects a lot from-”

 

“ _Ecstatic_ ,” you interrupted your teacher in a dry voice, then caught yourself and reverted back to you sweet-as-sugar voice, “They’re really proud, but I think they’re just ecstatic because I’m moving up a grade and Christopher is going to Harvard.”

 

“Oh yeah!” she exclaimed, “Make sure to congratulate your brother for me, okay?”

 

You gave her a tight-lipped smile, “Will do, ma’am.”

 

“Alright then, you have a good summer and maybe we’ll see you next year?” You were already making your way to the door, and one foot was already out the door. You hate conversations like these, but they were necessary pleasantries that you were expected to engage in. The reminder that this was your last summer with Christopher in the house had made you depressed. You wanted him to be your big brother forever, to help you out when you were in trouble. He did it a lot less frequently since the incident back in Coney Island, but he still tried to keep you in minimal trouble around the house. Sometimes you wondered if he actually did blame you, just like dad did.

 

“Yes’m, have a good summer,” the words were barely out of your mouth before you bounded out of the classroom to the already nearly empty hallways. Anymore time in that classroom and you would’ve been trapped in memories and uncomfortable conversations with a teacher whose name you couldn’t remember. People in the hallways was minimal, the few left were students getting the last bit of their stuff from their lockers and small groups of friends idly discussing summer plans. Out of the corner of your eye you spot a girl yanking her locker open, anger radiating off her. She was drenched from head to toe with what looked like sudsy water, and from here you could smell the reek of a fresh cigarette on her. She haphazardly stuffed the few remaining books and papers into her bag, which was more wet than she was, and pulled out an extra pair of clothes.

 

She must have sensed your staring because she turned to your direction, her eyes, a blue that was similar to your backpack, glared at you causing you to instantly shrink back. Looking away, you turned towards the entrance of the school and began to hurry away from the girl with the fiery, blue eyes. You gave the girl a small, sheepish smile and waved at her shyly, trying to show her that you’re friendly. Her scowl deepened and she raised her middle finger towards you, before yanking her bag onto her shoulders and pulling herself into the girl’s bathroom. The door slammed shut behind her, and you suspected she must have locked it. Pursing your lips, you looked down at the floor where her wet footsteps remained. Your brows furrowed, although her gesture hurt your feelings and was causing your eyes to water - _you were a bit of a crybaby_ \- you wondered if she was angry in general and not exactly at you.

 

Sighing, you shrug your shoulders and turn towards the school exit. You didn’t want to keep Christopher waiting, he promised he was going to take you to the movies and get some ice cream since your mother and father was going on a date tonight. You were happy to go with him, partially because you wouldn’t have to spend your own allowance on ice cream and partially because you didn’t want to miss a chance to bond with him It was rare for him to offer to spend time with you, in fact you were sure he was doing it because he was starting to become sentimental, but you weren’t going to complain. Instead you spared one last glance at the girl’s bathroom door, then turned and bounded outside.

 

Kids were swarming around the front of the school, waiting for their school bus to arrive so they can leave for the summer. Loud conversations filled your ears, someone was going to Macau for their vacation and another person was planning on going to Yellowstone. Some girl was screeching about how her crush had asked to be her boyfriend,  and her friends, howling in laughter at her expense, asking how are they going to date when her dad won’t drive her to his place. You didn’t pay that much attention, your eyes preferring the sight of Henry with a group of boys in your grade. Judging from their stance, Henry was bullying one of them. You weren’t that curious as to why, your guess would be as good as anyone else’s, Henry was a jerk and he loved to torture the seventh graders when he wasn’t clinging onto you.

 

Getting closer to the scene, you saw to of the boys in your grade -Richie Tozier and Stan Uris, you think- was lying on the ground, pained groans slipping from their mouths. Helping with messing with the boys was Belch and Patrick, Belch burping in one of the other boy’s ears then pushing him into one of his friends, and you think you saw Patrick throw something into a passing school bus. You winced at the sight, you hated you were too cowardly to outright stand up for the boys, and jogged towards Henry, preparing to put on your best fake smile. He wasn’t paying attention to you - _if he even saw you_ -, favoring a staring contest with one of the boys. You recognized him a bit, he was in a different seventh grade class than you and had a completely different schedule than you, but you recognized him as the leader of his friends. Even though he had a bad stutter, all of his friends seemed to hold a sort of respect for him.

 

“You s-s-s-suh-suck, Bowers,” it wasn’t uncommon for the young boy to stand up to Henry, you had noticed throughout the school year, you admired that he was brave, but had to stop yourself from cringing. Henry had been looking for a fight for awhile, you knew it was probably because his dad has been harsher on him than usual. The stuttering kid standing up for himself may be the excuse he was looking for.

 

“D-Duh-Duh-Did you say something, B-Billy?” Henry mocked, taking a step closer to the boy, Billy - _no it was Bill_ -, trying to intimidate him into shrinking back. Your eyes widened once you realized who the stutter boy was. Bill Denbrough the older brother of Georgie Denbrough, the little boy in the yellow rain jacket. You never felt the need to talk to Bill, well, no. You never wanted to talk to Bill, you felt guilty once your father had… _explained_ to you who the little boy you saw in the rain was. Maybe you could have prevented his death, but you couldn’t remember what stopped you from talking to him that day. Something scared you away from getting closer to him and it scared you that you couldn’t remember what it was. You were still worried whether you even wanted to know what had stopped you from approaching the boy.

 

Before he could start trouble on the last day of school, you wrapped your arms around his waist, startling him. Henry’s body tensed liked he was about to shove you off, probably thinking you were one of the boys, but he looked down catching sight of you. Henry’s eyes frightened you for a second. The downcasting shadow of his blonde hair caused his green eyes to look far more sinister, especially when he had the most spiteful look on his face. This look was an expression that you’ve only seen him sport recently, right when children started to go missing and his father’s drunken rage has become worse. It scared you - _Henry scared you_ -, and he seemed to have sense this. His lips quirked into a slight smile, but he returned to glaring at Bill.

 

“Henryyy,” you whined quietly, nervously demanding his attention, putting on a small pout for him knowing he was a sucker for puppy eyes, “Christopher was s’pose to pick me up some ice cream after class. Can you help me find him?”

 

He looked back down at you, his eyes softening slightly, and you lowered your guard in response, as he snaked his arm around your shoulders. Leaning down he pressed a kiss to your forehead, your face heating up at the gesture, it was unlike him to do sweet things like that to you. You hadn’t gotten closer to Henry, careful to keep him at bay with all of his advances. You tried reminding him of your age, he was sixteen and you were eleven, but that didn’t seem to bother him any. And you definitely couldn’t use the excuse that your dad wouldn’t like the relationship, both of you would know that’s a lie. However, he respected your distance for the most part, an occasional butt pinch or an obvious ogling was the most he usually did. Maybe he was taken aback by your forwardness this time, he did usually have to hunt you down to get your attention. His eyes turned back toe Bill, and he pointed a finger at him in a warning, “I’ve given you free pass ‘cause of your brother ‘n all, but, tomorrow, that free pass s’over.”

 

Henry had dragged you forward, towering over Bill in an attempt to intimidate him. Something caught Henry’s attention, and you looked where you saw his eyes glance towards. There, standing next to the woman whose daughter had gone missing - _Betty Ripsom, you couldn’t forget her face because it was plastered everywhere_ \- was your dad and he was looking towards you guys. He took his sunglasses off, taking a passing glance at you then a steely eyed glare at Henry. Your father didn’t mind your relationship with Henry Bowers - _what the fuck was your relationship again?_ \- since he had become fast friends with Henry’s ex-marine father. He had this idea that Henry could make you more effeminate and obedient, and Butch Bowers had hoped that you could influence his son to be a ‘real man.’ Whatever that was, you had no idea. All you knew is that the two older men made it their duty to make you two be together as frequently as possible to your annoyance.

 

Henry took his eyes off your dad and murmured, loud enough for Bill to hear, “This summer is gonna be painful, for you and your faggot friends.”

 

Taking his other hand, he licked his palm and slapped it gently against Bill’s face. You gave him a small look of pity, your lip curling up and your body shuddering in slight disgust. It was definitely gross to have spit on your face, but you knew worse things could have happened if you and your dad hadn’t intervened. Turning back to his friends with you in tow, you two began walking away. Henry led you across the street, you felt Belch reach over you to pat Henry on his back. Patrick was snickering quietly letting his laugh get louder as you guys walked away from the group. You heard Billy’s group talking quietly amongst themselves, calling Henry and his ‘goons’ jerks and wondering quietly why you always hang off of him like that. Your frown deepened, but you decided to ignore them in favor of looking up at Henry.

 

“Soo, do you know where my brother is?” you questioned, trying to take your mind off of the boys Henry bullied. You felt bad for them, knowing that Henry was going to hunt them down and bother them all summer long. You hoped he didn’t do anything horrible to them, but you had noticed weeks earlier that Henry had gotten more vicious with his bullying. He would never confirm it with you, but you suspect his dad had been even more cruel to him than usual. Although your relationship with your dad was strained you were more afraid of Henry’s father than your own, he was a mean drunk and he was meaner when he was sober.

 

Henry licked the palm of his hand again and patted your cheek with his slobbery palm. You squealed in disgust, yanking your body away from him, and grabbing the collar of your shirt to wipe off his spit, “Gross, Henry!”

 

Belch and Patrick laughed at your misery as Henry grabbed your arm and pulled you back towards him hard, his finger digging into your skin but not hard enough to bruise, “Don’t think I didn’t notice what you were doing there, squirt. You’re not fuckin’ slick, but you sure as hell looked cute tryin’ it.”

 

You scowled at him, then looked away, refusing to meet eyes with him, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, so won’t you let me go this time? Christopher was s’pose to pick me up right after class and I can’t find him.”

 

“Ain’t it cute how - _’oh shut up,’ your mind mentally interjected_ \- she tryna lie to me, Patrick?” Henry slapped Patrick's back, causing the other boy to laugh. You grimaced at the sound of Patrick’s laughter, he sounded like a hyena and the high-pitch of his laugh made your ears throb in irritation.

 

“Downright adorable,” Patrick responded, giving you his hyena’s smile, everything about him resembled a hyena. His face was long, his eyes narrow and far apart, his thin lips always tugged into a smile, and his long, dark, matted hair. In a past life he must’ve been a hyena, and you slightly hated him for it. At his compliment, you mentally flipped him off, but looked back at Henry, giving him your best ‘I’m serious’ face.

 

Sighing, he pointed back towards the school, “Chris - _you hated when he called your brother that_ \- is back at the East entrance. Leandra is asking him out on a date or some bullshit like that.”

 

You shot him a tight smile and turned to go to the opposite entrance, but Henry’s tight grip on your upper arm tightened, effectively stopping you. You looked up at him, and cocked an eyebrow in curiosity. He pointed back towards Butch’s old, albeit still sexy, bright blue car, and gave you mischievous smile, “Dad was wonderin’ if you wanted to come for dinner tonight. Why don’cha ditch your brother and come hang out with us.”

 

You shook your head, “I would - _’liar’ your mind quipped_ -, but I can’t go anywhere without Christopher, ‘specially on mom and dad’s date night.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Henry let you go and began to back away to Butch’s car that Patrick and Butch was starting to jump into already without him. He knew you were lying, but maybe he didn’t have the energy to call you out on it, or maybe he didn’t care, “Whatever. See you ‘round, Ellis.”

 

“Sure,” you nodded, turning around and beginning your jog towards the East entrance, “See you later, Bowers.”

 

… … …

 

“Y/N, I’m sorry but Lennie is leaving this week for summer break and I won’t see her when she comes back! She’s askin’ for a ride up to Toledo Drive to Point Place for a quickie, and I can’t pass up this chance,” Christopher must’ve seen the disappointed look on your face, your brows furrowing deeper and deeper in annoyance with his explanation. You understood the gist of what he was saying though, he wanted to ditch you for a girl whose name he couldn’t get right to go to the makeout hill. Your mouth twisted up in a pout at his request, and Christopher placed his hands on both your shoulders, probably in an attempt to make you understand the gravity of the situation, “I will love you forever if you let me! And I will take you to watch whatever stupid movie you want to watch and buy you all the ice cream your stomach can handle.”

 

“I want ice cream right now, not next week, right now,” You huffed and folded your arms stubbornly, a pout becoming apparent on your lips, “And her name is Leandra.”

 

“I don’t give two fucks what her name is, the point is is that she’s hot, easy, and only available this week,” He sighed dramatically, waving his hand as to brush off your correction, “Please, Y/N, I really want to go.”

 

“You were supposed to spend time with me, though…” You trailed off, feeling your eyes water a bit you blinked harshly trying not to cry over something as pathetic as this. You didn’t want to ruin Christopher's obviously pleasant mood, but this was just unfair to you and he knew it. Although you knew it probably wasn’t as fun for him to hang out with you as it was for you. He was eighteen and definitely wanted to spend time with kids his age, not with his sister who would probably - _not probably, definitely_ \- wanted to see _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_ at the old Derry theatre for the fifth time even though it’s been out for a year.

 

“I promise I will, just not tonight, it’s just-”

 

“Yeah, I understand,” you murmured, shrugging his hands off your shoulders, “Go have fun with _Leandra_.”

 

Christopher ignored your snide remark and wrapped you up into a bear hug and swung you off the ground, “Your doing a huge favor for me, sis! Your the best! Just promise to be home before your curfew and tell mom and dad I went to go see that movie that’s too scary for you.”

 

“I promise that as long as you keep my backpack in the trunk,” your brother nodded, immediately tugging your bag off your shoulders and into his hands, “Also, which one?”

 

“Poltergeist 3, they’re still showing that in theatres here even though it came out a year ago,” You nodded, and your brother immediately turned and started to walk at a brisk pace towards Leandra who was standing idly next to his car.

 

“Lennie, she said she didn’t mind,” he called out, getting the girl’s name wrong even though she obviously didn’t mind. Instead she giggled and reached out for him, to which he gripped her waist and pulling him closer to him. You looked away while they kissed, your cheeks flushing in slight embarrassment.

 

Slamming a fist onto his trunk, causing it to open, he tossed your bag into the back. He went to the passenger side of the car and unlocked the door for Leandra, then went to the driver’s side and slid into his seat. The car revved to life and he backed out of his parking lot and sped down the road, a hand sticking out of his window as he waved at you. You waved back at him slowly, sulking at the turn of events. Even though your brother annoyed you, confused you, and tortured you, you still wanted to spend time with him before he left for college. He had been distant from you ever since the incident in Coney Island and you had hoped that this summer would be your chance to mend your relationship with him. You couldn’t stand this distance that had wedged itself between the two of you.

 

Sighing, you sucked on your teeth, and began to wander on the sidewalk going away from school wondering what to do. You didn’t want to go to the library knowing that you would be spending most of your summer there anyway, and you didn’t feel like heading home either. The one thing that sucked about having a house instead of an apartment was the place had so many more dark corners, and a lack of neighbors making noises throughout the day. You didn’t like being alone in that large place for very long.

 

Then it hit you what you could do. It was the one thing you weren’t allowed to do when your parents was home, and Christopher would usually snitch on you over. You picked your pace up into a mad dash as you made your way to the woods that surrounded Derry. You were never allowed to play in the woods, one of your father’s explicit rules since it was unlady-like of you to go play in the trees. Your parents hated how dirty you would get after playing in the woods, and Christopher hated the smell. That was one thing he hated about Derry, he could never escape the smell of the forest, and it was worse whenever you went traipsing around in the trees.

 

Slipping between a few buildings that was right on the edge of town, you ran past the treeline and into the forest. Since it was summer the trees were fully bloomed, their green leaves swaying in the gentle breeze. The grass had grown to your mid-calves and some vines was growing all around, threatening to grab hold of every tree and strangle them in their grip. You let out an airy laugh, losing your breath slightly from running and dodging over loose tree limbs, but you didn’t stop running. You had a specific place that you wanted to go. You looked for the oak tree that you had made a mark on earlier in March when you last had the chance to sneak out.

 

Once you found the tree you made a sharp left turn, and onto a secret path that you had made yourself. It was a crude path, hard to tell from the overgrown thicket but you could notice it. You smiled when you saw the place you were looking for. It was a small clearing, right beside the river. The rocks beside the river made nice skipping stones, the grass was long and perfect to lay in, and the low hanging branches of the tree surrounding this clearing made for a perfect seat. You loved climbing trees, once you got to the highest branch you could see everything, and that’s exactly what you did. You pulled yourself up the branches slowly, ignoring the pain in your hands. It was typical for your hands to hurt after a few months with no climbing. Your calluses had softened and your skin had become sensitive.

 

You swung your leg up on the branch and unsteadily pulled yourself to a stand. Reaching up, you gripped another branch and using the trunk of the tree as leverage you pulled yourself up, grunting in exertion every once in awhile. When you got to the highest branch that could support your weight, you let out a happy sigh and turned your body around so you could admire the river. Instead of the usual sight, you see in the distance a couple of people hanging in front of the sewer entrance, causing your eyebrows to furrow. They were the boys that Henry was bullying over, and they looked like they were looking for something in particular. It wasn’t abnormal for you to see kids hanging around the sewer entrance, that was actually normal for you, but you didn’t like how the red balloon floated right behind the two boys that were watching their friends enter the sewer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much action, but this chapter is a necessary evil.
> 
> Sorry about the late posting, by the way. Shortly after the start of the new year there was a family emergency and I didn't have access to a computer. The next post should be on Saturday at 21:30 (CET). 
> 
> Thanks for being patient.


End file.
